


Twisted Paths and Fickle Fate

by agentsofthemcu (TheFallenArchangel)



Series: Trifecta [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, Foster Care, Foster kids, I'll update these as we get to them, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kinda deaf Clint Barton, M/M, Multi, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4448963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFallenArchangel/pseuds/agentsofthemcu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The very first time Clint Barton meets Skye, he's twelve years old, and walking into his fourth foster home. He couldn't have known that was the day everything was set into motion, and neither of them could've predicted the roles fate would carve out for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know where this ship came from, but it's rivaling my other ot3 and it's kind of ruining my life because NOBODY has written for this yet (not that I'm surprised) and I have a need for it. I'm looking for a new title though, as I dislike the one I have, it was just off the top of my head, so any suggestions are great!
> 
> Unbeta-ed, so all mistakes are mine.

 

_"There are no coincidences in life. That person that wandered in and out of your life was there for some purpose, even if they caused you harm. Sometimes, it doesn't make sense the short periods of time we get with people, or the outcomes from their choices... Nothing is small enough to be a mistake."  
― Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

 

The very first time Clint Barton meets Skye, he's twelve years old, and walking into his fourth foster home.

She's six, and she's sitting on the couch, curled up into their foster mother's side when her husband and the social worker walk him through the door. She looks at him curiously, moving away when the woman makes to stand.

"You must be Clinton!" She greets him with a smile so bright he thinks he may go blind. She's pretty, with dark brown hair and kind green eyes.

"Clint," he informs her quietly, scuffing the toe of his shoe absently on the tile of the entryway.

"Oh, alright Clint." She corrects herself, nodding. "My name's Elizabeth, but you can call me whatever makes you comfortable."

"Yes ma'am." He replies, nodding. This is one of the kinder greetings he's gotten, and it already beats both group homes he's been in.

"Just don't call her Bethy," the husband, Tom is his name, mock-whispers to him, loud enough for all to hear. "She hates that." Tom's Asian, with dark hair and a lean frame and a smile that meets his eyes.

"Don't you get him started on bad habits!" Elizabeth scolds, but she's smiling, so he figures he's okay. "Mary," she continues, drawing the girl toward her and placing a hand between her shoulders, "This is Clint. He's going to be staying with us." She explains to the child, who has a small crease between her eyes as she examines him in a way that makes him feel like she sees right through him. For a moment, he wonders if she's their actual kid, but then she asks a question that strikes that thought from his mind.

"Like me?" Her eyes move from him to their foster mother again, who nods slightly.

"Kind of sweetie. Why don't you go say hi? You can show him to you all's room."

"Yes ma'am!" She replies brightly, before walking over to him. "Hi Clint!" Though she raises her hand to wave at him a little, she seems wary, like she doesn't quite trust him. Good, he can't help but think in spite of himself, maybe she won't pester him too much. He doesn't mean it to be cruel, but in the last group home he'd been in, the littler kids had never given him a moment's peace. She points to one of his only two bags and cocks her head at him. "I can carry that." She offers.

"Maybe you shouldn't kiddo," Tom tells her kindly, "It looks a bit heavy for you."

He sees her face crumple just the slightest bit, barely noticeable, as she quickly nods. He's seen the look on kids in his other foster homes. Most of the time, they want to feel useful, and most hate where they can't be. and this Mary seems to be no different. He's not sure what makes him shrug and look at Tom.

"It's just clothes, if she really wants to. If she drops it nothing can break."

Mary gives him a huge smile and looks to their foster father expectantly.

"Alright then." He concedes with a shrug. Clint hands her the bag, which she takes with both hands. It  _is_ heavy, and she uses both hands to hold it, but she doesn't complain in the least.

She starts up the stairs at a snail's pace, burdened by the bag, though he doubts she'd actually admit to it being an issue. About halfway up the stares, he feels a bit of impatience at how slow they're moving, but doesn't dare say so. When they finally reach the top of the stairs, she shoulders open the first door they come to roughly.

The room's almost bare, instead of decorated like the rest of the house, something that confuses him. Two twin beds are pushed into opposite corners, made up with forest green bedding on one and light blue on the other. She drops his bag unceremoniously by the green made bed, the soft  _thump_ overlapping her sigh of relief. He sets the other one more gently next to it, glancing over to what must be her side of the room.

Despite the dresser and open closet, she doesn't seem to have put any of her clothes away. There's no stuffed animals on the bed or toys on the floor.

"Did you just get here too?" He asks as she goes and sits on her bed. She shakes her head no, and his eyebrows furrow together as he unzips one of his bags. "Want the closet or the dresser?" He asks, very much used to sharing rooms. He sees her lips move as she mumbles something, but it's far too soft for him to here, and even as good as he is a lip reading, he's drawing a blank.

"What was that?" He asks, tugging a pair of hastily folded jeans from where he'd packed them.

"It doesn't matter." She says, and though he still can't quite hear her, he can read her lips this time, because she looks at him as she says it.

"Well why not?" The snort that goes along with the question isn't supposed to be derisive, but it's clear she takes it that way anyway, because he can see her clam up, and he knows he won't get any more answers out of her right now. So instead of pushing it, he starts putting his clothes on the hangers he finds already in the closet.

She sits crosslegged on her bed, eyes focused on something out the window, but every now and again, he feels her eyes flick to him. She's curious about him, but not enough to ask her own questions. The silence isn't too uncomfortable, but he finds himself almost wishing she'd be like those kids from the group homes and talk his ear off.

"You'll like Mister Tom and Miss 'Lizabeth." She tells him suddenly as he empties his first bag.

"They seem nice." He agrees, curious as to what brought that on. "You like them?" He asks, wanting to keep the conversation going a bit.

"I do." She agrees, but there's no enthusiasm in her voice. "They're my favorite family so far." She continues, but rather than happy, she sounds absolutely miserable. "Even if they call me Mary." She says the name with about as much scorn as a six year old can muster, and he has to stifle a laugh with the back of his hand. Luckily, she hadn't seen.

"Well what's wrong with Mary?"

"That's not my name." She says it as simply as she would say the sky is blue.

"Then what is your name?" He sits on his own bed and tilts his head.

"I dunno. Not Mary Sue Poots." Her voice is full of absolute certainty and overwhelming disgust, and he can't help but make a face at the name. She points at him. "See! It's a stupid name!" She exclaims, and it's the loudest he's heard her speak so far. "The stupid St. Agnes nuns pick stupid names." The smile that'd snuck onto his face at her small rant fell as he realized the implication of the statement. Nuns had named her, not her parents.

"It's not a stupid name." He tells her in an attempt to be reassuring.

"Yes it is." She insists, crossing her arms over her chest and sending him a look that he thinks is supposed to be stern.

"Okay, maybe it is." He agrees reluctantly. "Why don't you come up with a new one?" She looks at him like he's just said that grass is orange.

"You can  _do_ that?!"

"Sure, why not. I'll call ya whatever you want." She looks over him, like she's trying to determine if he's telling the truth, and beams when she seems to decide that he is. "So what's your name?" Suddenly, she looks perplexed.

"I don't know. I'll have to think of one."

"Well take your time. You shouldn't rush the perfect name." She seems to go deep into thought, and he continues putting everything away.

* * *

Of the four foster homes Clint had ever been in, this one is the easiest yet for him to settle into. A routine is quickly established, and for once, he almost feels normal.

They enrolled him in the local public school, so weekdays mean early wakeups, Elizabeth making breakfast, and riding the bus to and from school. Once homework and chores are done, they'e allowed to do just about whatever they want until it was time for dinner.

Almost two weeks from the first day, he's starting to feel like this could be  _home._

He trails up the stairs after Mary (she still hasn't picked a name yet) once they've taken out the trash, smothering a yawn in the sleeve of his shirt. Technically, he's allowed to be up thirty minutes after she is, but he's too tired tonight for any reason to be good enough to stay awake. He collapses on the mattress as soon as he's in the door.

"Clint?" She asks from her side of the room, just loud enough for him to hear, which is good, because with the lamp off he has no hope of reading her lips. Stopping himself from making an annoyed sound, he rolls to face her.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think 'Lizabeth and Tom like me? I've tried to be real good." The question catches him off guard and his adjusting eyes find her small form through the darkness.

"What do you mean? Of course they like you. Why would you ask that?" A silence hangs between them, and he thinks he hears a sniffle before she answers.

"I don't want to leave."

 _That_ grabs his attention. He sits up, reaching for the lamp that sits on the bedside table Tom had moved into the room just the other day, turning it on.

"Did they say something to you?" He asks, because he doesn't want her to go. He  _likes_ her. She's stubborn and quiet, but when he can loosen her up and she acts like a normal kid her age, she's fun to be around.

"No," She admits, sniffling again, "But they never do. They never keep me." Tears stain her face now, and she balls up her small fists to push them away, making her cheeks pink.

"You seem to be a good fit here." He tells her, using the phrase the social workers always use.  _We'll see if it's a good fit. I don't know if it'll be a good fit._ She hugs the stuffed bunny she'd won on a crane machine to her chest as if it's a life jacket. He sees that stubbornness enter her eyes, and he can tell, just like he did on his first day, that he won't get anything more out of her by pushing.

True to what he expects, she doesn't say anything else after that, and he's not sure how long it takes for him to fall asleep, even after he's turned off the light.

The next day's a Saturday, and after breakfast is eaten, he goes out into the backyard, looking for something to do. It doesn't take long for him to fashion a few pointed sticks and a target of leaves he and Tom had raked just the other day.

Mary comes out and watches him, sitting on the steps by the sliding glass door.

"How'd you learn to do that?" She asks, noting his incredibly good, though not perfect, aim.

"My dad taught me." He answers, not taking his eyes off the leaf pile as he aims another stick, frowning as it lands about a foot to the left of it. She watches for what has to be another half hour before getting up and walking over to him.

"Teach me?" She asks.

He doesn't think either Tom or Elizabeth would wan the six year old playing with sharp sticks, so instead, he gathers some pebbles from the driveway, and teaches her with those.

She's a natural, even if she doesn't see it. Each time she's off target, a little crease forms between her eyebrows. By the time they their stomachs start growling for lunch, she can hit a target from the other side of the yard about half the times she throws. He won't deny he's impressed.

After lunch, they try climbing the big oak tree in the backyard, despite the sparsity of branches that actually support any weight. Then the races start. She scrambles up the trunk just ahead of him, hauling herself up with the limbs that won't hold his weight, yelling that she can get to the top first. She does, but he doesn't mind too much, because when he settles next to her on a particularly thick branch, she hugs him as tightly as she'll dare.

"I've never had so much fun Clint!" She giggles into his side, and he can't help but feel more lighthearted than he has in the three years he's been in the system. She points toward the clouds above them. "We can almost touch the sky!"

After dinner, they get bowls of ice cream and Tom pops popcorn while they pick a movie. They lay blankets on the floor and watch it together, Clint with his head resting on Elizabeth's leg and Mary curled into Tom's side.

When it's over, the six year old's asleep, and Elizabeth scoops her up and carries her up the stairs to bed. He follows just behind, slipping under his blankets just to hear from the other side of the room:

"G'night Mommy."

He's asleep almost instantly, but before he's completely out, he feels Elizabeth brush his hair back with her hand as she turns out the light.

* * *

It only takes about another week, before she's actively calling Tom and Elizabeth 'mom' and 'dad' and he thinks that he can be happy if things stay like they are. He thinks this place could be home, these people could be his family.

A full month to the day since he first arrived, she tells them all over dinner that her name is Skye.

_"We can almost touch the sky!"_

He beams for three days straight.

Tom takes him out shopping for new clothes just a few days later, he's mid growth spurt and within a few weeks, there's a good chance absolutely nothing will fit anymore. When they get home, and he loves that fact that he thinks of it as  _home,_ he knows something's wrong.

Elizabeth's at the kitchen table, and her face is buried in her hands. She looks like she's trying not to cry. Immediately he starts looking for Skye, running up the stairs to their room despite Tom's calls that he stay downstairs.

She's curled up on her bed, arms wrapped around her knees, her entire body shaking with sobs. He immediately notices her bags, which had vanished about his second week here, sitting out on the dresser, clearly filled with clothes.

"Skye?" He asks, going to her.

"They're getting rid of me!" She wails, launching from the bed and wrapping her arms around him, sobbing into his side. He can feel his shirt wet with tears but he doesn't care, because the shock has knocked the wind straight out of him.

"What?!" He demands, wrapping his arms around her and rubbing small circles in her back like he'd seen on tv.

"They're sending me back! They don't want me!" She grips him tighter. "I.. I.. I thought they loved me! I was good!"

He doesn't say anything, doesn't tell her it's okay, because it is most definitely  _not_ okay. He doesn't shush her, because she has a right to be angry. He just holds onto her, because he doesn't know how much longer he has.

The social worker is there by the next morning.

Tom puts Skye's bags in the trunk of the shiny silver Volvo, but neither he or Elizabeth will meet either his or Skye's eyes.

"Here." He tugs his necklace off his neck. It's simple, a metal arrow on a leather strip, given to him God only knew how long ago by a family member. It's not much, but he wants to give her something to remember him by. She'd left all the clothes and toys she'd gotten from here, so he figures she needs something.

"Clint..." She says quietly, before hugging him again. She starts crying again, and it takes everything he has not to break out into tears too. He's only known her about a month and a half, but she feels  _important._

The social worker peels her off of him and leads her out to the car that he watches drive away from the porch.

He doesn't say a word to either of his foster parents as he storms through the house and up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door shut behind him. Heat prickles his eyes as the traitorous tears threaten to overflow now that he's alone, but he doesn't let them. Instead, he starts shoving everything he owns into his own bag, leaving everything that Tom and Elizabeth had gotten him out.

He can't stay here, with  _them._ They'd let a little girl call them Mommy and Daddy and then had given her up. He doesn't care about the tears he'd seen swimming in both their eyes earlier, because he can only see Skye's in his head now. He  _can't_ stay here. He'll run if he has to.

It's two years before he sees Skye again.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Skye meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's chapter two. Thank all of you for your kind words, it means a lot.
> 
> Just a warning, this is the first chapter that will have referenced child abuse. It's not explicit, but it is definitely implied.

_ _

_"Do you think the universe fights for souls to be together? Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences." ― Emery Allen_

* * *

As is becoming usual, the social worker keeps a hand on his shoulder as she walks him to the door. Apparently, if you run away from your foster home once, they tend to assume that you will try to bolt if they so much as blink in your presence. It doesn't matter if you only got three blocks before you were caught. You are forever a runaway.

He's been told about a dozen times how lucky he is to be going to this foster. Apparently, the guy's some sort of saint, taking in a lot of the at-risk older kids and 'rehabilitating' them. They said he'd never returned a kid to the system, and had adopted each kid he'd taken on. The kids at the group home had told him how 'lucky' he was to be placed in his home. Honestly, with all the rumors he's heard, he thinks he'll be disappointed if this guy is anything less that Jesus Christ himself.

So far, it seems like everything they've all made it sound like. The neighborhood is bright and happy, and the house itself is the cliché to end all clichés. It's two stories, painted a very pleasant sky blue, with a white painted wrap around porch and a picket fence to boot. The lawn is immaculate, there's not a single variation of the green. It honestly looks like one of those magazines his old foster mom used to read just threw up on the place.

The woman rings the doorbell, and he can not-quite hear someone scuffling just behind the door. It swings open to reveal a tall, lanky kid, about his age, if he had to guess, with messy blonde hair. He grins as he looks them both over, but Clint sees his lips tilt downward the slightest bit for a second as he's regarded.

 _Whoa,_ he can't help but think,  _Territorial much?_

"Come on in!" he urges, stepping back to let them through. "Mr. Hammond's upstairs in his office, I'll go get him." He offers, "We were about to have lunch anyway." He waves a hand toward the sitting room before starting up the steps.

He goes where he's directed, and takes a minute to look around. Its decorated nicely, if nothing else, but it somehow doesn't strike him as very homey. Maybe it's the harsh scent of cleaning chemicals he can smell under whatever air freshener is in the room, or just how pessimistic he's become toward new fosters, but something about the whole situation makes his stomach turn.

Two pairs of footsteps coming down the stairs, one significantly heavier than the first, demands his attention. It's the blond boy who gets down first, casting him a quick look before vanishing into what he guesses is the dining room.

The man who is to be his guardian looks just as much a cliché as his house does. He wears a white button up that's tucked into faded blue jeans, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and no shoes. Blue eyes shine out of a round, kind face, and his light brown hair is neatly combed. He grins at the sight of Clint, and approaches him, though he doesn't come too close before reaching out a hand to shake.

Clint stands and steps forward, taking the hand. It takes him a second to realize that it was planned. By not coming the full distance, he'd coaxed him into standing and filling the gap himself. He thinks he can understand why they say the guy's good.

"It's good to meet you Clint." He greets, "Miss Angela here's told me a lot about you. I'm Mark." Dropping his head, he nods once at the worker. "Why don't you go over into the dining room with the others while I handle the paperwork." He suggests, "We can get to know each other a bit better over lunch." When he casts a look toward his bags, Mark waves a hand. "I'll take those up myself before we eat."

While a part of him wants to argue, say that he is perfectly capable of taking his own bags upstairs, he doesn't. Mark seems like a decent guy, at least from what he can tell. He won't be a jerk if he doesn't have to be. Plus, if this guy didn't ever send kids back into the system, starting off on a bad foot didn't seem like the best way to go. He nods, and steps into the entryway again, continuing into the dining room.

The blond boy is setting a bowl of macaroni and cheese on the table when he enters, and looks up quickly as he comes in.

"Oh, hey." he greets, wiping his hands off. "Clint, right?" He asks, probably having eavesdropped on the next room.

"Yeah. You?"

"I'm Lincoln." The boy, Lincoln, is taller than him by a few inches, but Clint's actually willing to bet that he's younger. He's not sure why, he just is. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the others." He nods his head toward a door that leads to, if Clint had to guess, the kitchen.

Despite the fact that someone's actively cooking, the room seems just as spotless as the rest of the house, probably because there's a girl, at least a year or two older than him, washing dishes already. He looks to the stove, and is confused when he sees that its a kid who's using it, and not one his age either. An actual child.

"New guy's here." Lincoln announces as he steps up to the side of the sink, taking up a towel almost mechanically and drying the dishes that are already clean. The girl at the stove turns around to look, obviously curious, and Clint is pretty sure he stops breathing. Because it  _can't_ be her. He barely hears Lincoln informing him that the dish washing girl's name is Amber. "And that speck of nothing over there making grilled cheese is-"

"Skye."

"Clint?" She's across the kitchen in a second, throwing her arms around him and hugging him harder than he thinks he's ever been hugged in his life. He holds onto her as long as he can before she pulls back and looks up at him. He's surprised to see her eyes full of tears. "What are you doing here?" She asks softly, and he can tell she's scared. He wants to comfort her, ask what's wrong, before he's interrupted.

"You know him Skye?" Lincoln asks, towel gone and arms crossed over his chest. He's protective. In a way, it brings Clint some comfort to know that  _someone's_ been looking after her, even if he doesn't know how long she's been here.

"Yeah, from a few foster homes back." She explains, finally letting go of him.

"Oh. He's  _that_ Clint." The blonde boy surmises. relaxing a touch, though still not entirely at ease. He looks to Skye. She'd mentioned him? As he examines her, he can see the strip of leather from the necklace over her collarbone. Though the arrow is beneath her shirt, it's easily recognizable to him. She's skinny, a bit more than he remembers her being, but not enough to be concerning.

"Hey pipsqueak, watch the sandwiches." The girl called Amber calls out. His fists ball almost involuntarily, and he almost opens his mouth to defend Skye, before he looks to Lincoln, who doesn't seem concerned, and finally to the girl, who's grinning. It's just a nickname, he realizes. Skye, though, seems panicked by the thought, and rushes back to the stove to flip the sandwich in the pan. Again, he wonders why she's cooking, but she doesn't seem too bothered by it, so he resigns himself not to be as well.

"Anything I can do to help?" he asks, taking a look around the room.

"No, actually." Lincoln replies with a shrug. "That's the last sandwhich and we're good. Oh! You can grab the tea pitcher from the fridge." He places the dried pan into a cabinet as he says it, and Clint complies quickly, opening the fridge. It doesn't surprise him at all that the fridge seems as absolutely spotless as the rest of the place, and locating the pitcher among the groceries is pretty easy.

He sets the full pitcher on the table by the macaroni, and glances over to see Mark signing a paper with a flourish and a grin, saying something to the social worker about wanting to 'give back', whatever that meant.

Lincoln appears from the kitchen area, setting cups at each of the plates that are already set up and ready. It's a touch odd to see teenagers and children behaving so independently, weren't they supposed to be the problem cases? The unruly ones that needed help? It's odd. It occurs to him for the first time that Skye's here, so she must've created a problem somewhere. He wonders if it was Tom and Elizabeth giving her up that set it off, she seemed fine before.

"He'll put your stuff in my room," Lincoln tells him as Mark vanishes up the stairs with Clint's bags, "Since the girls are in the other one." He flashes a smile, "You a heavy sleeper?" He asks, looking a bit sheepish. "I tend to snore. At least that's what people tell me."

"Clint can sleep through anything." Skye informs him as she enters herself, smirking. "As long as it's on the left side."

Blinking in surprise, he stares at her for a second. It's true that his left ear is the worst of the two, and he's considerably more likely to hear if the sound came from his right, but he's never told her that. In fact, he's never told her that he even has hearing issues. He hadn't thought she'd noticed.

Everyone's in a seat by the time Mark returns to the dining room, Lincoln and Clint on one side, and Skye and Amber on the other, the only open chair being at the head of the table.

"It's good to see you guys are already getting acquainted." He says with a smile, taking his place at the table, reaching for a sandwich and scooping some macaroni onto his plate. Once done, he passes the dishes to his right, and they all take the same. It's strange, how ordered it is, Clint thinks, even as he grabs his own sandwich. He opens his mouth to mention that he and Skye know each other, but something, he's not sure what, stops him.

"These are very good Skye," Mark praises after a bit of his grilled cheese.

"Yeah, they're awesome," Lincoln agrees after quickly swallowing.

"Don't sell yourself short Lincoln," Mark chastises lightly, reaching to pat the boy on the back. "Your mac and cheese is fantastic." The blond boy doesn't quite stiffen under the man's hand, but he does seem to still a bit, and it's clear he doesn't like the contact. A feeling of something like dread wells up in Clint's chest as the thought that something is very  _wrong_ here increases.

"Thanks.."

"Clint," the man addresses him, pulling him out of his thoughts, "Things are pretty simple here, and we don't have that many rules, but if you break the ones we have, you will be punished." He says it simply, and he doesn't sound overly malicious, so he feels like it's safe to ask:

"Well what are they?"

"Number one, is that chores come first. On weekends, once your chores are done, you're free to play outside, stay in, or go into town, with permission of course. When you're in school, you come home, do your homework, then your chores. If you have any free time after that, you have those same freedoms."

He nods in agreement, that much, he thinks, is reasonable.

"You are to be home before sunset, unless you've asked express permission to be out later than that."

Another nod.

"You will be respectful to all adults, including myself, and other children. If there is a problem, you should come to me with it if you can't handle it civilly. If you do come to me, I do ask that you knock before entering any rooms that aren't yours."

"Yes sir." He replies in what he hopes is a polite manner before taking a sip of the tea.

"That's really it," Mark finally decides after a moment of silence, "I think you'll be a good fit here Clint, just like the others." With a warm smile tossed in for good measure, Clint would probably agree with him, were it not for the tiny red flags he's just barely picking up on.

"Tomorrow morning, I'll have the chores rearranged so Clint can start doing his part," The guardian adds, this time addressing the whole table. After getting muffled noises of assent, he turns his attention to general conversation.

He listens as Amber talks about her science project and as Lincoln explains an essay his English teacher has assigned. Mark offers suggestions to both of them, before instructing Lincoln to show Clint around school and introduce him to friends once he's enrolled, since apparently they're in the same grade.

When it came Skye's turn to explain school goings-on, she just shrugs, something that makes a line appear between Mark's eyebrows and a strange look cross into his eyes. In just a second it's gone, like it was never there to begin with, replaced by the beaming grin he's worn so far. Something about the look has Clint's stomach twisting in an instinct that yells  _danger!_ in bright flashing letters.

"Well what's wrong? I thought you said you liked Miss K?"

"I do, it's just..." Skye hesitates. "I'm  _bored._ Everything we've gone over in class I already learned at my old school." It's the most petulant he's ever heard Skye be, which catches him by surprise, but it makes sense. He's dealt with that himself in the past year. Mark doesn't seem quite as sympathetic.

"Well, you  _are_ a very bright girl. But you need to focus on your studies. Just think of it like review."

"But-" She tries. Clint sees Lincoln's entire body tense before it even happens, so he almost expects the cut off, voice raised in volume ever so much.

"No buts." Mark's voice is hard and authoritative, as if daring her to continue to argue. Suddenly Skye looks absolutely horrified and ducks her head.

"Yes sir."

"Your schooling is important to me," he continues, voice gentling to the way it was before seamlessly. He looks to Clint as he speaks, as if he were explaining his anger to him and not to Skye.

Nobody speaks for the rest of the meal, and Clint thinks it's the most uncomfortable he's ever been. Though his appetite has vanished, he finishes off his plate at least, if for no other reason than wanting to keep himself in Mark's good graces.

He thinks everybody's about finished when he sees Lincoln look at him before flicking his eyes toward the table a few times and standing. Taking the cue, he rises to his own feet and helps the blond clear the table, grabbing the silverware while the other boy gets the plates. Amber's in the kitchen, waiting for them at the sink by the time they get there, not hesitating in the least as she starts rinsing everything clean. Skye follows them in, her arms laden with the cups she'd collected. She almost drops one, but he catches it quickly, earning a smile that's both affectionate and grateful at the same time.

Their guardian gives him an appraising look as they re-enter the dining room, before finally rising to his feet himself. "Thank you very much," He tells them all, sounding perfectly genuine. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be finishing some work up in my office until dinner." He arches an eyebrow, "I think we may order pizza to celebrate our new addition." And with that, he vanishes up the stairs. When he's been gone for a few seconds, Lincoln finally lets his lips quirk upwards again.

"Come on, I'll show you our room and help you put your stuff away." It's like someone's flipped a switch. The second that Mark's gone, the others drop the stoic obedient act and suddenly become what he expected - actual kids, like him.

He's up two steps before the taller boy turns and calls back, though not too loudly:

"You coming, Pipsqueak?"

"In a second!" Skye calls back from somewhere in the kitchen. "I'm drying!"

The two boys head upstairs, and Lincoln pauses at the door on the end of the hallway. "This is ours," he explains, before pointing out the neighboring door. "That's the girls room, and the one across the hall is Marks." Finally, he gestures to the final door. "Marks office. You heard his rule. Don't go in any of those rooms without knocking and asking first."

"I think I can manage to remember that." Clint decides, committing the doors to memory before following into the room that they'll share.

There's a four poster twin bed on two of the opposite walls of the room and a window with a seat marks the middle of the room between them. The bedding is done in plain black and, as he sits on the one Lincoln gestures to be his, the mattresses themselves leave much to be desired. It's not the worst he's ever had though, so he won't complain.

"No dresser, so we'll have to share closet space, but I doubt either of us have enough that it'll be filled." he explains, retrieving a handful of hangers from the walk-in. He sits on the edge of Clint's bed and helps arrange the clothes onto the hangers, and just as they stand to start actually put them away, a small snort sounds from the doorway.

"You know he's a big boy Lincoln?" Skye asks, smirking at them both good-naturedly.

"I know!" The wild-haired blond replies with a voice full of heavy false excitement, "It'll be nice hanging out with someone I won't have to worry about stepping on." She sticks her tongue out at him, and he chuckles, grabbing another few articles of clothing to put away.

"Why don't you come in and help? Make yourself useful." Clint teases. watching the exchange with a smile. It relieves him a bit to know that Skye can still be herself, or at least relatively close to herself, even after what the Brodys did. He still gets bitter about it sometimes, making him lash out at his current foster parents, hence why he'd been labelled trouble and landed here.

"Sorry," She replies in a far too innocent voice. "Girls aren't allowed in the boys' room, just like you aren't allowed in ours."

Quickly, he files that away under an unmentioned rule he doesn't want to break.

That done, they head back downstairs and outside to talk, not wanting to disturb whatever work Mark is doing by making noise.

He sits on one of the steps, and Skye makes a place next to him, while Lincoln takes a crosslegged spot on the concrete path and Amber joins him.

In the span of that conversation, Clint learns a lot. He learns that Skye's been here six months, Lincoln's been here eight, and Amber's been here for a year. Amber's also the only one still there to have been formally adopted by Mark, even though she'll be eighteen in a month. It takes him awhile to work up the nerve to ask what happens if you break rules, and the second he does, he regrets it. Skye goes tense against his side, Lincoln visibly stiffens, and Amber abruptly stops meeting his gaze.

"Sorry," he rushes.

"Just... Don't break the rules. It's not worth it." Amber tells him, and her voice sounds hollow, devoid of the laughter it'd carried just a moment before.

"He... he uses a belt." Skye starts abruptly beside him. Clint feels his own breath hitch in surprise, and he thinks it's more than just spanking she's talking about, but he doesn't get the chance to ask for more because she continues. "He has this closet, in his office. It's small. Dark." She draws her arms around herself and her voice wavers as she talks. He can tell that there's something she's not saying, but he doesn't push for three reasons. One, is that Lincoln looks like he'd probably throw a punch if he did, two is that they all seem hugely uncomfortable talking about it, and three, he can feel Skye trembling slightly against his side. His hands clench into fists at his side.

A horrible feeling settles in his chest, and regardless of how quickly the topic changes, it doesn't quite go away. In fact, the abrupt new conversational direction only makes it worse, because that switch in their behavior is even more prominent, and he's certain that's extremely unhealthy.

He hadn't actually realized how much time had passed, so when Mark appears in the doorway behind them, asking what kind of pizza they want, it surprises him.

"Pepperoni." He replies, looking the man over. He tries to picture him wielding a belt, but the image won't form clearly in his mind.

"Alright, you all come in and get washed up." All four of them rise wordlessly, almost but not quite in unison and follow the man in.

By the time they're seated at the table, with paper plates instead of glass ones, Clint's stomach is growling. He can't remember the last time he had decent pizza. His last foster home had been health nuts whose idea of 'treats' were chocolate flavored tofu bits, and pizza in a group home was nearly unheard of.

Aside from another round of reassuring comments that now make him a bit sick to his stomach, they eat in silence, which is just as well, they're all ravenous enough that the four pies are almost gone by the time all is said and done.

He showers before bed, at Mark's insistence, and honestly there's no way in the world he's going to argue with the man, especially after having heard what he had.

When he finally changes into sleep clothes and gets in bed, Lincoln's already asleep. He barely notices as he falls asleep, that Lincoln doesn't seem to be snoring at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm thinking StaticSkyeHawk for the ship name. It's the only one I can think of that I like. StaticQuakeHawk sounds okay too, I guess. Thoughts?


	3. Lives Swiveled and Changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So first update since the start of the new school year. Honestly I'm shocked at the fact that I even managed to get this done. In fact, the mental image of what happens in this chapter is what sparked this whole story, so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Not beta-ed, so any mistakes are mine.

* * *

 

_“Sometimes the slightest things change the directions of our lives, the merest breath of a circumstance, a random moment that connects like a meteorite striking the earth. Lives have swiveled and changed direction on the strength of a chance remark.”  
_ _―_ _Bryce Courtenay_

* * *

 

Waking up the first morning in a new foster home is always strange for Clint, because there's always that moment of confusion and no recognition before he remembers that he's in a new place. Lincoln's sitting up on his bed, the dim light from the barely rising sun lighting the way he groggily shakes his head. He thinks there has to be a sound he's not hearing, because Lincoln's focus snaps to their bedroom door just a second or so before it swings open, letting light from the hallway burst in.

"C'mon, up and at ‘em." Mark says as he looks them over, "We have to get to the school early to get you enrolled, Clint."

In the end, he winds up sitting in the school's front office for almost half the day before they finally make him a schedule and send him to class. He's a bit relieved that Lincoln is in four of his six classes, the familiar face making the transition a touch easier than he expected.

They walk back to the house together, and Lincoln tells him that usually they walk to school as well. When they get there, they find Amber, already having started her homework since the high school let out before the junior high. Mark, true to his word, had left a piece of paper sitting on the table with a note on it for them, rearranging the chores. Since neither boy has any homework, they examine the list.

"Why don't you go straighten up our room, and I'll check the groceries." Lincoln suggests, deciding much like Clint had in his head that dividing and conquering would be for the best. 

He's not sure how much straighter the room can get, but he does everything he can think of, making the beds as neatly as he thinks is possible and locating and using the vacuum.

There's not much else after that. Lincoln decides that groceries can wait until tomorrow and after they vacuum and dust the living and dining rooms, there’s nothing else to do. Boredom tempts them outside, and after Lincoln assures that Amber doesn’t need them to do anything for her, they head out.

"So do you do archery?" The blond asks absently as they walk down the sidewalk. He's taken a bit aback by the question, and it must show on his face, because Lincoln shrugs and explains. "The necklace you gave Skye is an arrow, and she told me you were teaching her how to aim, before." It's a reasonable conclusion, he admits.

"Yeah, I did it a lot, before my parents died." He replies, throat tightening a touch, though he's almost blunt in saying it. He's almost completely used to having to explain to people. They hadn't been the perfect family, far from it, but that didn't make the loss of them hurt any less. He quirks his lips into a sarcastic smile, trying to lighten the heaviness that had settled on them with his last statement. "But I haven't been able to practice much lately. Somehow foster homes don't think giving a weapon to a 'troubled' kid is a good idea." He makes air quotes around 'troubled' and hears his new friend snicker a bit in response.

"Well...” He starts, sounding almost but not quite reluctant. "Mark's got a bow and a few arrows in the shed out back. I guess he used to use them for hunting. As long as you ask, I think he'd let you use it."

"Really?" It's impossible for him to not perk up significantly at the thought. It's been way too long since he's has a bow in his hands. Some days, it feels almost how he thinks missing a limb would feel.

"Yeah. He may want to see that you actually know what you're doing, but as long as chores and homework are done and he's in a good mood, it probably won't be a problem." 

They walk in silence for a few minutes longer after that, before Lincoln breaks the silence suddenly.

"My parents abandoned me." Clint blinks a few times at the information, taking a second to process it before turning, opening his mouth to say that Lincoln owes him no explanation just because he himself couldn't help but spill his guts. He’s having none of it though, and continues, waving a dismissive hand. "One day they just... didn't come pick me up from school."

More than anything, it surprises him that Lincoln was abandoned at an age where he was already in school. Clint hadn't ever met anyone who'd been abandoned or given up when they weren't a baby.

"I'm sorry." It's the only thing he can think to say in response. Lincoln just shrugs before checking his watch and abruptly changing the subject.

"We should probably head back. It's almost four." He says, as if stating the time on its own explained the need to return to the house. Apparently, he sees Clint’s look of confusion, because he explains; "Mark likes to have dinner on the table by six on school nights, so we have to figure out what he wants us to make and maybe make a store run."

When they re-enter the house, Skye almost bumps into them, her view obstructed by an armful of laundry she carries toward the stairs, presumably to put away. Clint offers her a smile in greeting, but she barely returns a forced one of her own, meeting his gaze for only a second before she vanishes up the steps. To say its unusual behavior for her is the biggest understatement he’s made in a long time. He looks to Lincoln expectantly for some sort of explanation, though his confusion only mounts when he sees that the other boy’s mood seems to have pulled a full 180. His blue eyes are clouded with something he can’t comprehend, and his shoulders suddenly slump in the image of defeat.

“Lincoln?” He tries, though his friend barely seems to register his own name, “What was that?” It takes a few seconds before Lincoln finally pulls his eyes from the now empty staircase.

“Later.” He finally says, his voice suddenly multiplying in age. If it weren’t for how suddenly helpless the thirteen year old suddenly sounds, Clint thinks he’d probably push for an answer, demand one even, if only to assure himself that Skye’s okay, but as it is, he clamps his jaw shut. “I’m going to go see what Mark wants for dinner.” Lincoln suddenly decides, starting for the second floor at a snail’s pace.

It turns out that the answer is spaghetti, which relieves Clint some. He’s not good at cooking by any means, in fact one particularly colorful memory consists of him almost burning a foster house down while making Ramen noodles in the microwave, but he’s more than capable of boiling water and putting noodles in it. Amber steps in to make the sauce once he’s begun, and Skye starts spreading the garlic butter over the bread while Lincoln cleans behind them as they work. Somehow, though he’s only been here a day, it almost feels natural. They feel like a unit and he feels like he belongs. The looming unknown threat of Mark’s punishment forces him to trust them, true, but part of him thinks that, even without it, this would feel right.

He tries a few times to cheer Skye up, since her gloomy disposition hadn’t improved at all since they started cooking, but it doesn’t seem to help. If anything, her eyes become a little bit sadder than they were to begin with. It makes his stomach churn uncomfortably, and that feeling of _wrong_ that comes and goes washes over him again. It doesn’t help that once or twice, he spots Lincoln looking at the eight year old with an expression that looks positively heartbroken.

They have dinner on the table at almost promptly six, and Mark comments on the pleasant smell as he takes his seat at the table. Clint won’t lie, to some degree he’s glad that Lincoln’s between him and Mark, because when their guardian’s hand claps down on the other boy’s shoulder, he fights the urge to growl in frustration. He doesn’t quite understand how a hand that doles out physical affirmation can turn around and raise a belt to a child with the right provocation. On the other hand though, he can’t even pretend to miss the way Lincoln stills under the touch, and it sends a wave of protective instinct crashing over him, enough to make his own muscles tense. It must be noticeable, because Lincoln’s foot connects with the back of his leg harshly under the table. He abruptly focuses on his plate.

“You seem to be settling in well, Clint.” Mark comments with a beaming smile that, now that he looks, doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

He can’t think of an adequate response, and he doesn’t trust his voice not to betray his discomfort, so he just nods once.

The rest of the meal goes much like the one from the night before had. Each of the kids share the details of their day at school, with Mark interjecting every few moments and offering suggestions when the door’s left open for it. When prompted, Clint does the same, describing what he thinks of his new classes, and taking a cue from Skye’s mistake the night before, leaving out the fact that he already knows most of the material that’s being covered.

Tonight, he’s the one who stands first from the table, taking up the plates. Lincoln grabs the remaining food, Skye gets the cups, and Amber goes to start the water. It only takes a few minutes for the cleaning to be done and the leftovers to be put away, and a part of Clint almost revels in the routine of it he already feels. It doesn’t feel as _right_ as it did when he was living the disorganized organization of the Brody’s, but it’s still nice.

On impulse he flicks some of the suds from his hand onto Skye’s hair. She makes a squeaking noise of protest and wipes it off, before flinging her own handful of bubbles at him. She misses and hits Amber, who arches her eyebrow before wetting her hands and dripping the water onto the eight year old’s head. Skye giggles, and throws a rag at Lincoln, putting a big wet spot in his dark green t-shirt.

They devolve into fits of laughter, and it’s the first time Clint’s seen all of them _really_ act like kids. They almost forget the looming threat of Mark. That is, until they hear him clear his throat from the doorway. The smiles immediately drop, and the giggles may as well have never existed.

“Amber, why don’t you and the boys go upstairs and wash up before bed.” He suggests, though his tone leaves little room to doubt that it’s nothing less than an order. Heads ducked, the beeline for the stairs, before Mark suddenly takes ahold of Skye’s wrist.

“Not you Skye. You and I need to have a conversation about what happened at school today before you go to bed.” He explains, his hand keeping its grip around her arm. Her eyes settle on the floor and Clint can see her shoulders quaking in what has to be fear. Red fogs his vision, though he remains in enough control of himself to look to Lincoln for an idea of what to do. The other boy’s eyes are locked on Mark in a glare that’s nothing short of murderous.

“Is there a problem, Lincoln?” Their foster parent asks, as polite as ever, but with the edge of a threat in his tone.

In almost the blink of an eye, Lincoln’s whole body language shifts. The fire in his eyes fades as quickly as it came, his fists unclench, and his jaw slackens. In the span of just a few seconds, he morphs from furious to utterly helpless. It makes the knot in Clint’s chest tighten painfully.

“No sir.” He finally replies, and though his eyes don’t seem wet, Clint’s pretty sure he can hear tears in his voice. It makes him want to rip Mark to pieces. Slowly. “C’mon Clint.”

He wants to scream. He can list about a dozen and a half reasons to _not_ leave Skye with their so-called ‘guardian,’ but he also sees the message clear in Lincoln’s eyes: _It’ll be worse for her if we try to help._

“Sure,” he forces, shrugging once to seem as nonchalant as he can, though he doubts any of them buy it.

Following the taller boy up the stairs, turning his back on Skye, leaving her with someone he _knows_ is going to hurt her… it makes him want to throw up.

When they get to their room, Lincoln fiddles with the door for a few seconds, balancing it between open and closed, just enough to make it look shut, while at the same time a gentle push could probably knock it open. A girl in one of the group homes had done a similar thing with her door so she could sneak out at night.

“What’re you doing?” he asks as he sits on the edge of his bed, watching, and his frustration rises when he doesn’t get an answer. The silence hangs heavily in the room while Lincoln changes into pajamas, prompting Clint to do the same. “What will he do to her?” he asks as he drops the clothes from the day into the hamper in the corner.

“It depends.” The answer is so soft, Clint almost doesn’t hear it.

“On?” He presses. He has a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and he wants to know if it’s as justified as he thinks it is.

“What she did.” The simplicity with which Lincoln says it alarms Clint, and apparently he notices it, because he amends, “It depends on what Mark _thinks_ she did.” He says something else, and his tone sounds bitter, but the only word Clint can catch is ‘drink’ as the other boy shuts off the light.

He wonders if Lincoln actually expects him to go to sleep, because his friend seems to be trying very hard to get him to think he’s dozed off. Through the gloom of the room, he can see him breathing and moving far too quickly and often for a sleeping person, even if he can’t hear the rustling of blankets and sheets.

At some point, he knows he dozes off, because a sound wakes him. The room’s still dark, it’s clearly not morning, so he thinks he may have imagined it, that is, until he hears it again. He glances towards Lincoln’s bed as he sits up, and feels his stomach drop.

Lincoln sits on the edge of his bed, hair tousled like he’d been asleep just seconds before, but Clint can see how alert his eyes are even in the darkness. In his arms is a shaking form that he recognizes instantly as Skye. He can tell she’s crying as she trembles against Lincoln, her arms wrapped around his middle and clinging to him as if her life depends on it. Lincoln seems to be doing the best he can to comfort her holding her close and whispering in her ear

“Skye?” He whispers, swinging his legs off the bed. The sound of her name seems to jolt her like she’s been burned and she clutches even tighter to Lincoln, whimpering softly. Moving slowly so as not the scare her even more, he crosses the room and sits beside Lincoln.

Closer now, he can hear the whispers now, _It’s okay. It’ll be alright in the morning, I promise. I’m so sorry Skye. It’s okay now._ Anxiously, he sets a hand on Skye’s back, just below where Lincoln’s rest. She startles at it at first, before she suddenly moves so quickly It almost scares him. She’s still mostly against Lincoln, but her shoulder presses into Clint’s collarbone and she buries her face into the crook of his neck and sobs quietly.

He rubs comforting circles against her back with his hand, he and Lincoln trading off occasionally on the comforting words. It doesn’t seem to take too long before she starts to settle down and he gets an idea. Carefully, he pulls away, doing his best to ignore the noise of protest Skye makes as he stands.

He drags the blanket off his own bed and spreads it on the floor, before setting both he and Lincoln’s pillows down on the makeshift pallet. It won’t be the most comfortable thing in the world, but they’ll live. Lincoln catches on and pushes his own blanket to Clint with his free hand, while rousing Skye with the other.

They situate themselves easier than Clint would’ve expected. He and Lincoln lay on their sides, facing each other, with Skye wedged between them. He girl lays facing Lincoln, but her hand wraps up tightly in Clint’s shirt as if daring him to try to leave, as if he ever would.

As Skye drifts off, Lincoln explains in a whisper that they’ll have to keep some sort of watch in shifts until morning, because if Mark catches Skye out of her room, they’ll all be punished. Clint doesn’t care so much for his own punishment as he does the thought of Skye being reduced to this again, or of Mark hurting Lincoln. He agrees as he tugs Lincoln’s blanket over the three of them.

“It’ll all be okay in the morning, I promise.”

Clint thinks maybe Skye’s woken again, but when he glances to check, he sees Lincoln’s eyes are trained on him. It’s a reassurance for _him,_ not Skye.

He reaches over the girl tucked between them to grab ahold of Lincoln’s wrist, and feels the other boy’s fingers wrap around his own. They were trying to comfort Skye, but maybe they could help each other too… Maybe they could make it through the night.

Maybe it _would_ all be okay in the morning.

 


End file.
